Last week, I was mid-chord progression outside King’s Cross when this beast of a car rumbled past. Radical styling, low to the ground, and that V12 growl hit me harder than security’s usual shout to move on. Reminded me of the time a bloke in a fancy sports car tried to pay me 20 quid to stop playing so he could park right by the entrance. I kept strumming. Cold coffee in my thermos got colder by the second. That car’s roar? It felt like a rebellion of its own, same as mine.